milis agus searbh
by foolondahill17
Summary: A retelling of the events in Desolation of Smaug, from the perspective of Bard's eldest daughter, whom may or may not have a particular fondness for reckless, brawny, and wounded young dwarves. After all, living in the shadow of a dragon-infested mountain, Sigrid should have suspected something of the sort. The bittersweet tale of young love's first sting; a three-shot novella
1. Part 1 - The Gathering of the Clouds

Title: milis agus searbh

Summary: A retelling of the events in Desolation of Smaug, from the perspective of Bard's eldest daughter, whom may or may not have a particular fondness for reckless, brawny, and wounded young dwarves. After all, living in the shadow of a dragon-infested mountain, Sigrid should have suspected something of the sort. The bittersweet tale of young love's first sting; a three-shot novella

Rated: K+, for character death and mention of widespread death and destruction caused by a dragon

Disclaimer: I own neither _The Hobbit_, nor whatever other characters or situations the movie version decided to invent.

Author's Note: This is not a Kili/Tauriel because, as Tauriel is an immortal elf, moreover probably thousands of years old and Kili is a relatively young dwarf, I don't think that could ever realistically happen. I think the greatest feeling Tauriel might have had for Kili would be of the motherly/elder sisterly/protectively-kind. Kili probably had a shameless school-boy crush on her.

Contains hints of Legolas/Tauriel semi-unrequited love, Sigrid/Kili mutual affection, and tentative musings for what comes after _Desolation of Smaug_ – out of semi-context from the book.

I apologize for any discrepancies in the plotline, dialog, or characters as I hadn't the movie available for reference. Please excuse any minor adaptions: details in a book-to-movie-to-fanfiction can sometimes be lost in the shuffle – or ignored deliberately.

There is always a first, apparently even for sappy, angst-riddled romance novels.

I hope someone enjoys this, please drop a line if you do.

The title is in Gaelic

* * *

_milis agus searbh_

(Bittersweet)

Part One of Three – The Gathering of the Clouds:

"Da, why's there dwarves climbing out of ar' toilet?"

It was a valid question. Sigrid had always prided herself on being straight forward, blunt, and to the point. She only asked questions when she honestly wanted to know the answer, when that answer might be important.

Tilda peaked from around Sigrid's skirts. Bain rushed forward to help the next dwarf climb out of the plumbing, as the first dwarf shook water out of his boots with ill-grace.

"We need food, Sigrid," said her father, who was scuttling about in the room above them. It was not the answer Sigrid had been looking for, not an answer at all, really.

Another dwarf clomped down onto the floor, his heavy boots making sloshing sounds and whipping wet hair out of his eyes. Another dwarf followed him.

"How many are there?" said Tilda. Sigrid had not thought to ask that, as she would evidently see for herself after they all come up out of the toilet.

"Sigrid, Tilda," warned their father and Sigrid tore herself away, catching hold of Tilda as she went.

"Da," she said, grabbing a pot and hauling it over to the fire her father was tending, "What's happened?"

Her father straightened up and briefly met her eye. "Naught to worry about," he said, and went fiddling about the kitchen. His whole body breathed of secrecy, of lies and haste. Sigrid could tell from the way his eyes kept flitting to the window, the shutters of which had been bolted, that he was watching for something – guards, perhaps.

Sigrid felt her hands go cold as she fumbled with the tap, keeping her back to the stairway but hearing as more dwarves were brought up downstairs. She swallowed to clear her throat. _Naught to worry about_, but it had been a long time since Sigrid had allowed herself to wholly believe _that_.

She knew her father smuggled: food, wine, and sometimes money for the people of Lake-Town. She knew her father dealt in the shadows, worked in deceit and political turmoil. She knew it was only a matter of time before the Master decided he hadn't anything left to wait for and simply arrested him. But Sigrid had never heard or seen, or caught breath of whisper of her father smuggling in something as big as a dwarf – many dwarves – and she was worried.

Her mother was dead, Tilda a child, Bain too brave, and her father too reckless, so Sigrid worried.

There was the sound of clomping footsteps, snorting, jingling, sloshing wet clothes, and the scraping of boots upon the wooden floor and Sigrid turned from the fire to see the dwarves filing up the stairs and into the kitchen.

They lived in a house that was only one room, a stove against the wall, a bed against another, a table in the middle, one door, one window, and a staircase that lead to the toilet and the dock below them.

There were fourteen of them, Sigrid counted. They all collected about the table, looking grubby and out of place, almost ridiculously stocky against their father and even Bain. The last of them trailed up the staircase and Sigrid noticed that this dwarf must be very young, for he hadn't any beard, and Sigrid had never heard of a dwarf without a beard.

He was also shorter than all the rest and spoke with a higher voice – the others had gruff, rumbling voices – "Dreadful business. I'm not surprised if I've caught cold." The little dwarf sneezed and Tilda, who'd come up again to hide behind Sigrid's skirts, choked on a laugh.

The pot of water began to boil, water sloshed out and sizzled on the floor, reminding Sigrid to make haste. She fumblingly yanked drying fish off the twine they'd been strung on from the roof and began dressing them.

The dwarves behind her were making a racket, grumbling and shivering and relieving themselves of sopping wet cloaks, groaning as they sneaked heat from the fireplace. Sigrid's hand shook slightly as she ran her knife under the skin of the fish. She was sure she'd be able to hear the pounding of her heartbeat, had it not been for the noise the dwarves were making.

She thought uneasily of her father's warning, that the house was being watched, _he_ was being watched, and wondered with a sick feeling in her stomach what would happen should the Master's guards be drawn to their house that night.

She slid the fish into the pot of water off her knife. The little dwarf was still sneezing.

"Tilda, gather something warm for our visitors." said their father's voice from a corner. Sigrid glanced to him. He was looked swarthy and bathed in shadows, grim. Visitors by necessity, Sigrid knew he meant, but certainly not by good-will.

"What are you?" Tilda chirped, having dashed away to the bed and gathered blankets. She was holding one out to the little dwarf.

"Tilda," Sigrid felt her little sister's name slip from her lips, an easy chiding, something casual, unthinking in such an unusual situation.

The little dwarf smiled as some of his comrades grunted in amusement. "I'm a Hobbit. Bilbo Baggins, at your service."

Tilda curtsied and said with little shame, "Wha's a Hobbit?"

Sigrid dropped her spoon and swept over to her sister. "Hush," she said as she walked, closing her hand on Tilda's shoulder and drawing her away.

A dwarf seated beside the Hobbit – whatever a Hobbit might be – guffawed more openly.

"We hav'na much food," Sigrid felt the words slip off her tongue, feeling hospitality and geniality called for something. Her eyes flitted again to her father, whose eye's glinted in the flickering light of the fire. She searched for something, approval or reassurance, but received not even recognition.

"I canna promise for the flavor but it will be hot," she continued. She took her place before the fire again, swirling the spoon in the pot. Her heart thumped beneath her breast.

"We've been living on the trail," one of the dwarves grunted behind her turned back. "It will be a mercy, whatever it is."

"I thank you for your hospitality," said another dwarf to her father, who did not reply.

"We'll be leaving soon."

"Ye'll have to wait for dark."

Sigrid doled out stew into bowls, plates, and mugs, calculating in her head as she went. Too many dwarves, fourteen too many, thirteen too many and one too many Hobbits – whatever that was.

She sent Tilda to the table with the stew and grabbed two steaming bowls herself. She squeezed between two dwarves to reach the table.

The dwarf to her right was seated with one leg extended. He had a bandage wrapped at his thigh, close to the knee, stained a washed out brown from a mix of water and blood.

"You're injured," said Sigrid, hearing her voice again and marveling at its stubbornness for not consulting her. The dwarf looked at her as if he had not realized she was there. Sigrid felt hot blood creep into her cheeks. They might have been dwarves, might have been only her size or even a bit shorter, but they were still all men amongst their kin, and she was but a young girl and want to mind her own business. "We've clean linin if it needs a' be dressed."

"Thank you," said the dwarf to her other side. She turned to him and saw his eyes were young looking and face smooth, very like the injured one but fairer. She wondered if they were brothers, wondered if all the dwarves were somehow related and thought again that there were too many, all impossible to tell apart.

Sigrid retreated back to the fire and continued to pass out the stew. She gave a mug to her father last and as she passed it to him his fingers caressed hers, his rough hand brushing the tips of her nails, briefly warm and reassuring.

She bustled Tilda over with her to the bed, where they could sit and be out of the way. Tilda bounced on the mattress, on her hands and knees and watched with wide-eyed wonder. Sigrid watched carefully, quietly, trying to sooth the nerves in her stomach. She wanted to grab hold of Bain too, and tuck him onto the bed instead of where he stood next to their father, looking far too brash and shrewd.

She was eldest. She was seventeen summers this past season. She knew she was supposed to make him mind, to tend him, to tell him to put more wood on the fire instead of goggling with such interest at the weather-worn dwarves, whom spoke in low voices about dark, dangerous things. Bain was only a child –

But he was not – was not a child, not anymore. He too was getting older, almost fourteen winters.

Sigrid's stomach was whirling, feeling tumultuous so that she had to breathe deeply. The air about her was musty and crowded, from the dwarves and other things, but mostly the dwarves.

She wished for darkness. She wanted them to leave.

* * *

Slowly the day passed. The sky outside was gray and heavy, overcast with a storm that had been hovering over them for a fortnight. The dwarves dispersed as they might in such closed quarters. Sigrid lingered in the corner with Tilda, keeping her sister close because she wanted to keep out of the way.

They asked for weapons, discarded the ones Sigrid's father gave them, and suggested storming the armory. Sigrid felt sweat bead by her hairline. She didn't care what the dwarves did, whether or not they were caught, as long as they kept her father out of it, kept she, her sister, and brother unharmed.

And then her father was rushing away, taking Bain aside, and leaving. Sigrid rose from her perch on the bed and slunk to the corner where Bain was.

"Where's he going?' she hissed.

"I dunno," Bain replied.

"Wha' did he tell ye?" said Sigrid, feeling a trickle of something almost like resentfulness fall into her gut. She was eldest. Bain was – was not yet a man, even if he was not quite a child.

"We canna let them leave. 'Til he gets back," Bain hissed back to her.

Let them leave. Nothing could be gained, everything lost by their staying. Sigrid wondered where her father had gone, what he was planning. She thought uneasily of the weapons the dwarves had requested, of the guarded armory, but shook off her misgivings because she knew her father was not that reckless – could not be.

"It's dark enough," grunted one of the dwarves.

"We still need weapons," said another.

"Where's the armory, lad?" asked another of Bain.

"My Da'll be back in a mo'. Wait until then. You'll need a guide –"

"This has bleeding taken long enough. We're losing time if we wait much longer."

"Please stay. He doesna want you to leave. T's dangerous. The Master's guards, his spies –"

"I reckon we're more than enough match for this Master, and whatever guards he has," grunted a dwarf darkly.

"Please no," said Bain. "Da'll be back soon. Please wait."

"Where's this Bard gone to, anyhow?" said one of the dwarves. "Probably to sell us out to the Master –"

"My Da wouldna think o' such a thing –" said Bain heatedly.

"Then why are you so anxious to keep us here?" said another dwarf. Too many dwarves. Let them leave. There wasn't any point of waiting. Let them rob the armory, let them be caught by the Master, let them _go_. "Probably planning an ambush, he is."

"Da wants ye to stay. 'Tisn't safe –"

"Please," said Sigrid's lips again. "Please. We dunna want ye caught. We wanna keep ye safe. Da'll be back in a mo', he will."

"Haven't got a moment, lass," said a dwarf, one of the two with a long white beard and kindly, crinkling eyes. "Come along. Reckon we've wasted enough time as it is."

"Please no," said Bain. Sigrid felt her hand move of its own accord and close on Bain's shoulder, higher than hers now. She had somehow not noticed how tall he had gotten until this moment.

Bain looked at her almost angrily, but the dwarves were filing back down the stairs, out of sight, out of mind, out of care. Sigrid felt her stomach ease in relief as the last of them retreated with a bow of appreciation.

Tilda flounced over to them and chirped, "Where'a they going?"

"Doesna matter, Tilda," said Sigrid, "Come now, help me clear up." And to Bain, "Naught you could have done a' stop 'um. Did all ye could and naught for Da to blame ye, that is."

Bain slinked into the shadows, looking wretched. Sigrid felt her stomach clench and reminded herself that he wasn't a man yet, no longer a child, but not quite a man. Still a boy, still her younger brother.

Her father returned minutes past. He looked anxious and excitable.

"Where are they?"

"There wasna' anything I could do," said Bain, and their father rushed off again. Sigrid felt her stomach twisting. It wasn't over, said something in her head, but she tried to sooth her unease. They were gone. The dwarves had left. Let their problems be their own, now.

* * *

Her father dashed about in a grim shadow. Something was troubling him. Rarely did he let his emotions show on his face, only when thing were truly dire could Sigrid tell that he was worried. Now was one of those times.

They were sending the dwarves out today. Tilda wanted to see them off, like the rest of the villagers, but their father told her it best to stay in. Sigrid chided her sister for silence, and come help her clean the fish.

There was a knock on the door. Sigrid's heart hammered in alarm against her ribs, mind flying to visions of the Master's guards, tricksters, troublemakers, spies. Her father opened the door that creaked on its hinges.

"Please, can you help us?" The voice was gruff and in foreign accent, startling and horrifyingly familiar. _They'd supposed to have all been gone_.

"No," said her father's voice, darker than she'd ever heard it before. "We've helped enough."

"Please," the voice beseeched. "Kili's sick. He's very sick."

The knife in Sigrid's hand slipped. She tore her fingers away just in time. No, they hadn't room, hadn't resources, hadn't means to care for a sick dwarf –

"Bring him in," said her father's voice. "Sigrid, we need medicine."

"We havena' got any medicine," said Sigrid. Her voice sounded tight and panicky in her own ears. Again she didn't know why she spoke. It wasn't her place.

"Do what you can, Sigrid," said her father, his voice perhaps vaguely reprimanding.

Sigrid glanced to the dwarves, four of them this time, one supported by the others, as they shuffled through the door.

"Lay him on the bed," said her father.

She recognized the dwarf they were carrying as the one with the wounded leg. His face was ashen gray, with fever or pain.

"Wha's wrong –" she started to ask and the dwarf with the lighter hair, who was perhaps the other's brother cut her off.

"It's his leg. Orc arrow." Sigrid felt bile rise in her throat but a strange sense of relief as well. Infection was easier – not catching, at least.

Sigrid busied herself gathering herbs and bits of dried plants into a bundle. After her mam had died it had been Sigrid to treat Tilda and Bain, their cuts and bruises and whatever minor injuries they had received playing with the other children, or Bain while working on the docks. Her hands trembled slightly as she tied the dried stems and leaves into a torn off shred of linin. She wetted in from the pump and bid Tilda start some water boiling.

She rushed to the bedside with the bundle and knelt. They'd laid the dwarf atop the blankets, unwound the bandage about his leg and tore apart his pant leg, revealing a gruesome looking wound beneath.

It was inflamed, partially scabbed over and tinged with black. The skin about the torn flesh looked gray, utterly colorless and worrisome. She stretched out her hand to put the packet on the wound but another of the dwarves intercepted it, one with dark, graying hair and crinkles about his eyes. He looked as though he might have been someone's father, far away in another world.

"Thank you, lass," he said, and placed the bundle to the wound himself. The dwarf – Kili, had they called him Kili? – writhed in pain and Sigrid felt her throat close in. She'd seen young men in pain before, accidents on the docks or ships. She'd never liked it. She hated to see people in pain, men especially because they were otherwise so sturdy, so impenetrable.

"It's better to be on hot," her voice came out on her breath. "But cold'll do for now. Water'll boil in a minute. Helps with infection."

She stood and began to walk away but was stopped by the dwarf moaning in pain.

"How long has a' been, since he…?"

"That'll do, Sigrid," warned her father from the corner.

"Not long," said the light-haired dwarf, whom was kneeling anxiously by the other's side, clasping the sick one's shoulder tightly in his fist.

"It'll need a' be cleaned," said Sigrid, words wrenched from her throat, conscious of her father's gaze on the back of her head. "Infection needs a' be drawn –"

"Doesn't look like an infection," muttered the dwarf who was holding the bundle to his leg. "Orc arrow, could mean poison."

Sigrid felt as if something hard had been sunk dully into her stomach. "He's a fever," she whispered. "I'll get ye something cool for 'is head."

She slipped down the stairs that led to the dock, bent over the water and drew some into a pale. She felt unusually unnerved, and couldn't put her finger on why. Perhaps it was, for all the Master's recognition, the dwarves still felt as though they were outlaws, that Sigrid's aide may have repercussions on her family, on her father.

She carried the bucket back up the stair and drew some out with another rag. She felt a kind of solace in her work, in mindless conformity to duty. There was not room for thinking when action was needed.

She crossed the room quickly and squeezed between the dwarves again that she might place the band on his forehead. She fought back the order to give him some space, he needed air, which had almost leapt to her tongue. She wondered if there was any other way she might address it.

The younger dwarf with the light hair wasn't doing anything constructive, nor was the older one with the ear-horn. The only one who seemed in possession of his wits was the fatherly like one, whom was still pressing the bundle to the wound.

"You know medicine?" she said softly to him.

"Aye, a bit, lass," he muttered back to her.

"Ye'll need space a' work," she said.

"Keep doing as you are. Bring me a bit of that water when it's hot enough."

"Willa," she said, and left to see how well the pot was on the fire.

* * *

Sigrid was jolted to the side. A hand flew out to brace herself against the wall, another to grab hold of Tilda.

"Da, wha' was that?"

"Was that the dragon?"

"Is the dragon going a' kill us?" Sigrid felt her stomach twist at the sound of Tilda's voice. She looked to her father, who was looking dark and grim, horribly set.

"No. I won't let him kill you. Bain, come with me." His father reached up to the bindings on the ceiling, pulling out an arrow.

"A black arrow!" said Tilda. The hand Sigrid had grabbed her sister's arm with flexed almost compulsively.

Her father and Bain were hustling out of the doorway and Sigrid felt her feet trip to follow them. She was suddenly out in the still, cold air of dusk and not entirely conscious of making the decision to leave. Lights were blinking in the houses around them, people were sticking their heads out of doors and windows, calling to neighbors in panic and agitation.

"Da," she said. "Wait."

"Stay with Tilda, Sigrid."

"No, Da, where are ye going?" she only asked questions that were important, that needed answers because those answers were important –

"Naught to worry about, Sigrid."

"Da, no, leave Bain."

"He'll be fine. Go into the house, Sigrid."

"He's too young. Leave him be. He's jus' a boy –"

"He'll be fine, Sigrid." Her father's voice had a horrible note of finality about it, a gentle keening that begged her to do as he bid, to obey him, to bide her time, not to worry –

"Da –"

"Naught to worry, Sigrid."

"Come back soon, Da."

"I will. Look after Tilda." He swept away into the wavering darkness, the half-light between day and dusk and overcast skies above them.

She would. She always did. She looked after Tilda, Bain, the infernal dwarves that had invaded their home because her father was too busy gallivanting about the town, thwarting authority and bringing Bain into it, whom wasn't a child anymore but not quite a man.

Sigrid watched the rest of her father and brother's shadows disappear before passing back into the house.

"Sigrid –" said Tilda, gesturing helplessly toward the bed in the corner, where the young dwarf was evidently getting worse, only half-conscious, writhing in a fever, and groaning in pain.

Sigrid rushed over, the patter of her footsteps mistaken for the flutter of her heart.

"Wha's wrong –"

"We have to get this fever down."

"I dunno what else to do." It was true. Sigrid knew barely anything about medicine, wounds from war or an Orc arrow. She wasn't a healer. She knelt beside the bedside again and fixed the cloth on his head, clamping her hand tightly over it so it wouldn't move for the thrashing of his head.

His eyes fluttered. A moan escaped his lips.

"Hush," she whispered, because it was something she might have done if it was Tilda or Bain in bed with sickness. "Ye'll be alright. Hush, now. Ye'll be fine."

"Get another wrapping for his leg," said the father-like dwarf.

Sigrid leapt back up from the floor and rushed over to the pot of boiling water, kept hot above the fire. She prepared another bundle, soaking it in the hot water and returned to the bedside.

"Have you any Athelas?"

"I's a weed. We feed it to the pigs."

The father-like dwarf suddenly dashed away, pressing the bundle of cloth and herbs into Sigrid's hand.

The young dwarf was writhing in pain. Sigrid swallowed to clear away the lump in her throat.

"Hold 'em still," she said, surprised that her voice was steady. She pressed the bundle to the wound, feeling heat radiate off his skin onto her fingers.

He yelled aloud. Sigrid felt her heart stutter. His hand whipped out at her, trying to bat away at the pain in his delirium. She caught his fist before it flew into her face, wrapping her fingers in his and easing his arm back to his side. His fingers seized around hers, squeezing her hand until it hurt.

"Don't you have anything for pain?"

"Ney," said Sigrid in answer to the light-haired dwarf, whose voice sounded desperate, beseeching. "I dunno what else to give him. I – hold this. I'll see what I can do." She passed the bundle to the silver-haired dwarf, eased her fingers from the young dwarf's grasp, and rose to search in the kitchen.

There was so little medicine available in Lake-Town. The Master rationed supplies, raised prices to preposterous heights and expected the villagers to live with it without complaint. Sigrid sorted through a cabinet and straightened up to find herself facing the window – the window through which there was a face.

The face was horribly disfigured, contorted and twisted in utter repulsiveness. Its jaws were open, bearing dark, dripping fangs. Its eyes glinted at her, leering, malicious, suggesting cruelty and will to cause pain.

Sigrid screamed as the panes shattered. The beast lunged at her. She ducked in mindless terror, forgetting where she was, what events had led to this moment, where was Tilda, Bain, her father.

Shouting, pounding feet, a disfigured roar, Sigrid leapt aside as she saw something shining and curved dart out at her from the muddle. She grabbed hold of the first thing her hand came into contact with, something hard and round and pelted it at the lunging beast. There was the sound of splintering wood. Sigrid dimly registered that they – whatever they were – had broken in the door.

There was a rush of frigid night air. Tilda shrieked. Sigrid saw the curved blade lash out at her stomach. She fell backwards and hit something hard. She thought disjointedly of other monsters and leapt away from it. She ducked for the space beneath the table, heard Tilda scream again and grabbed her sister as she fell, dragging her down to the floor with her.

She threw her arms over Tilda's head. She saw through the gap of table legs a panicked muddle of rushing dwarves, bottom halves of hulking beasts. They were under attack. The whole town, perhaps. Bain, her father, had the beasts gotten to them?

The young dwarf was yelling. Kili – Kili. She thought they'd said his name was Kili, though she couldn't think for why she remembered it now. She looked across the room, where one of the monsters had leapt onto the bed. Kili was struggling with it. They both felt to the floor. Kili was yelling. Sigrid was supposed to _do_ _something_ –

There was a rush and a dull thunk and an arrow sunk itself into the monster's head. Black blood spattered the floor. More monsters seemed to be entering, the dwarves must have been putting up a fight because there were more crashes, more blood, more unearthly, guttural yelps as if from animals.

The table flew away from over their heads. Tilda screamed. Swords flashed. There was a flurry of arrows and someone grabbed Sigrid from behind.

She screamed and struggled, expected to feel cold steel against her throat, but a voice hissed into her ear, "Get out of the way." The voice was rich and gentle, a deep, throaty, and soothing tone that was unlike anything the dwarves had used, unlike the monsters.

Sigrid caught a glimpse of pale blond hair and a bow that twang and sung with almost manic insistency. _Elves_, shrieked something in her head, something not panicked but oddly triumphant. Her chest seized as she grabbed hold of Tilda and pressed her against the far wall, using her body to shield her younger sister.

Suddenly everything was oddly still. The monsters lay about on the floor, slain and bleeding lumps of dark flesh. Sigrid realized she was shaking. She could barely breath. She felt as if she was going to be sick.

There were two elves, tall, graceful, fair beyond imagination, beautiful, enchanting…. There very skin seemed to glow slightly in the half-darkness created by flickering firelight. A woman and a man, whom spoke in a liquid, flowing tongue that made Sigrid's heart leap for its verse.

The dwarves were gathering around Kili, who was moaning on his back on the floor, half-way covered by one of the dead beasts. Sigrid dimly noticed that Kili's face was dangerously white, that the wound on his leg was bleeding again.

The male elf was suddenly turning, as he went she caught a sight of his face, something that must have been wrought in stone for its perfection, high cheek bones, glistening blue eyes…. He was gone with a swing of his hair, drawing an arrow and fitting it to his bow as he left through the door.

Sigrid breathed deeply, a noise brought her back to the present and she realized the woman was bending over Kili, who'd been lifted onto the table by the other dwarves. The elf was muttering to herself and fingering the wound.

"Please help him," said one of the dwarfs. Sigrid couldn't tell which for she was suddenly assaulted with the thought that Kili was dying. He was _dying_ –

The elf rushed away. Sigrid's voice was caught in her throat. _No. Come back. Help him. Don't let him die – _

And then the elf was back, holing a sprig of green and leafy white flowers. She bent over the dwarf again, rubbing the leaves in her hands. She put the weed on the wound and Kili was yelling, writhing, tearing in pain.

Sigrid tripped forward to grab his shoulder. _Hush_, whispered her voice in her head. _Hush, be still. Ye'll be alright. _"Tilda," she choked and her sister ran forward to help too. Sigrid blinked and felt something hot run down her cheek. She didn't like this. She hated this. Make him stop yelling –

Slowly Kili began to quiet. Slowly his limbs went still. Sigrid faltered back, sure that it was too late, he was dead – and then his chest rose and fell, breath seeped from between his lips, and the air around them went still.

Sigrid backed away slowly, feeling with her hands behind her for something to steady herself with. The elf straighten up and shook her auburn hair out of her face. "He will be alright. Let him rest." And then the elf addressed herself directly to Sigrid, which Sigrid had not been expecting. "Bathe his wound regularly with Athelas. Try to sooth his fever." And then she too had swept from the room, drawing a dagger from its sheath at her waist.

Sigrid eased the beating of her heart and realized she'd already known that. Of course bathe his wound. She hadn't needed the elf to tell her _that_ –

"Are you alright?" said the father-like dwarf. Sigrid had not noticed him come back in.

"Yes," said Sigrid, forcing the word up her throat. Tilda promptly dissolved into tears. Sigrid faltered toward her sister. Her arms and legs didn't seem to move properly. She couldn't think. Her arms wound their way around Tilda's shoulders.

_Hush, you're alright. Everything is fine. You're safe. _

"What were they?" whispered the sounds from Sigrid's mouth, barely recognizing she could form cognitive words.

"Orcs. A party that's been searching for us."

"They've left after Thorin, no doubt."

"We apologize that they came here. Neither you nor your sister was hurt?"

"No," said Sigrid. She wasn't hurt. Tilda wasn't hurt. They were alright. They were safe. Kili was not going to die. She pressed Tilda's face into her breast, feeling her tears seep through her blouse. "The res' of the village –"

"Safe from what I can tell. They only came here."

"The elves –"

"Been tracking us," said the light-haired dwarf almost fiercely, "trying to lock us back up in their prisons."

"She saved your brother's life, Fili."

There was a rush of footsteps on the rock outside and before Sigrid had a chance to think of more monsters – more Orcs – Bain appeared in the open doorway. Sigrid realized the door had been splintered off its hinges and was lying in pieces on the floor.

"Wha's happened?" said Bain hastily. "Sigrid – what?"

"We're alrigh'," said Sigrid quickly. "Da –"

"Da's been arrested."

* * *

"Hush," said Sigrid as she pressed the damp cloth to Kili's forehead. He groaned, eyes fluttering. "You're alrigh'. Lie still."

"She…she cannot be here," his voice seeped from between his lips in a raspy whisper. "She is far away. She walks in starlight in another world. It was just a dream." His eyes were bleary. He was still feverish, delusional. Sigrid felt something in her chest go cold.

"She isna here. She's gone with her kinsman. Hush now. Sleep. You're alrigh'." His eyes closed again and breathing came in even waves.

A hand came out to touch the band across Kili's forehead, inches from Sigrid's fingertips.

Sigrid looked up to see the light-haired dwarf – Kili's brother. She couldn't remember his name.

"Thank you," said the dwarf, staring at Kili's face and not at hers. Sigrid felt her cheeks rush with warmth again. She was not accustomed to talking to young men. She did not know how she was supposed to present herself, what she was supposed to say.

"You're his brother?" were the words that came from her mouth. It was not a valid question, because she already knew the answer. Besides, the answer was of little consequence.

"Yes," said the dwarf.

"Are you," Sigrid began but the dwarf looked up at her and she stammered, "Are you all related– the lot of you…?"

"In one way or another, I suppose," said the dwarf. "Thorin is my and Kili's uncle, Balin his second cousin and Dwalin his brother –"

"What abou' the four o' you here? What are your names?"

"I'm Fili, this is Kili, the gray-haired one is Oin and the other is Bofur."

Sigrid nodded. _Anna 'gain, slowly?_

"Thank you for what your family has done. It is not fair, what we've asked of you."

"I woulda asked the same, had a' been my brother," said Sigrid. It was something she ordinarily would have only thought, never said aloud. She stared at Kili's face, because he was sleeping and not looking at her like Fili.

They had moved him back to the bed, after they'd dumped the Orc bodies off the dock and scrubbed the floor of blood.

"Your father?" said Fili.

"E's always getting' into trouble," said Sigrid. "He'll be alrigh'."

Bain was outside, tying together posts to use as a door, Bofur – if that was what the fatherly like dwarf was called – was helping him. Tilda was huddled by the fire buried in cloaks. The gray haired dwarf – Oin, Fili had called him – was sleeping in a chair, his head propped atop his arms, braced on the table.

Sigrid was still shaking, perhaps it was from the frigid air blowing from the gaping doorway. Perhaps not.

"I'll dress his wound again," said Sigrid.

"Let me," said Fili. "You can rest with your sister."

Sigrid smiled without knowing it. "I dunna think I can sleep," she said.

* * *

"Drink this," she whispered, gently raising his head with one hand and holding the cup of water to his lips with the other. "Slowly now."

Kili sipped the water and coughed weakly. His eyes slid shut again.

"That's it," said Sigrid, lowering his head back on the pillow. Beads of sweat trembled on his brow. His eyes were still unusually bright, his skin pale.

"Where's Fili?" he croaked. "The rest, where –?"

"Hush," Sigrid whispered. "Your brother's alrigh', so's the rest of 'em. Near morning, they're all sleeping. You try't too."

"What about you?"

"I'm not tired. Don' you worry."

"The elf – she was here – she was…so near…."

"Yes, she was here. She – she's left."

"Where – what happened? There were…Orcs…."

"They're gone. You're safe," unconsciously her hand reached out, looking for his fingers, wanting to touch him, to give him some kind of anchor, a binding…. Her hand stumbled to a stop.

"Fili…?"

"You're brother's alrigh'. Hush, now."

"Who're you?"

"Sigrid," she answered. "I'm here a' help. Try't sleep."

"You're – Thorin?"

"He – E's alrigh' too. Hush. Don' speak so'm. Ye need rest."

"Durin's Day… the dragon?"

"I – I dunno. 'Ts alrigh'."

"You – Sigrid…."

"Yes, I'm Sigrid. Sleep now. Shut your eyes." She ran her hand lightly over his forehead.

"He – your…alright…."

"Yes. W'all alrigh'."

His eyes drifted shut. Sigrid's hand slipped down his cheek and dropped back at her side. She slumped against the wall and eased the tension from her shoulders. They were all alright. Naught to worry about. _Da, where are you?_ Naught to worry.

* * *

To be continued


	2. Part 2 - Fire and Water

Thank you for any at all interest this story has obtained. I'd be oh-so-grateful if you took the time to type up a review

* * *

Part Two of Three – Fire and Water:

Sigrid was woken by a stirring at her side. Her eyes fluttered open. The light coming through the cracks in the shutters was of the pale gray before dawn.

"Didn't mean to wake you, lass," said the dwarf beside her. It was the fatherly one, Bofur. "His fever's broken. All downhill from now."

Sigrid raised herself painfully onto her hands. She realized she was on the floor, at the base of the bed and half-way leaning against the wall. Her neck was aching from sleeping in such an uncomfortable position.

"Goo'," she muttered, as the events of the last night and the days previous came rushing back to her. It was a whirling, confused muddle of shrieking Orcs, elves, dwarves, Da – her father had been arrested. Her father was in _prison_.

"I'll fix 'im some food." Sigrid stood and tried to get the worst of the kinks out by stretching, tried to get the worst of the memories pushed to a corner of her mind, out of the way. "He'll be needing somethin' to get up his strength."

There was suddenly a deep, resounding rumble from the floor beneath her. Her legs trembled and she lost her balance against the wall. The rumble went on, something that she might have called an earthquake; except she had never felt one before. And then, in the distance, as if from the dimension between dreams and consciousness, a noise that sounded like a roar.

"Wha' was that?" she whispered. Her hands had gone cold, tightened into fists so that her fingernails dug into her palms. She could feel her breath come up her throat as it scraped against flesh.

"Been happening through the night," said Bofur. "Something's stirring at the mountain. I don't know what Thorin's done."

"It is the dragon then?" said Sigrid, surprised at hearing her voice. It sounded so clear, so unconcerned. "I thought Tilda was only frightened – Da – I dinna think…."

"Aye, that's the beast," said Bofur. "Smaug." The name set a shiver running up Sigrid's spine, down her arms and legs and made the hair stand up on the back of her neck, reached her heart and chilled her to the core. She had not heard the name but for only legends, far away fairytales that had set nightmares on her when she was young.

Kili stirred on the bed below them and opened his eyes.

"Easy, lad," said Bofur, turning and laying a hand on the young dwarf's shoulder. "You're alright now. Sit up if you can. Sigrid's gone to fix you something to eat."

"Sigrid?" said Kili as she left, gone to put more wood on the fire. Bain and Tilda were lying on the floor, sleeping and wrapped in blankets. The older dwarf, Oin, was still sleeping with his head atop the table. Fili wasn't in the room.

"Aye, lad. Right smart little lass that's nursed you through most of the night. Daughter o' Bard."

"Where are the elves?" Kili whispered. His voice was hoarse. "She was here…or was it just a dream?"

"She was here alright."

Sigrid didn't know why it mattered so much to him, why he kept asking about the elves, about _her_. She was gone now. Sigrid had appreciated her help, was glad Kili was healed, but she was gone now and had ceased to matter.

Sigrid stirred the fire, prompting a flame in the grate to set the water boiling again.

"Sigrid?" said Bain's voice beside her, and Sigrid turned to see he'd woken and was sitting up, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

"More wood for the fire, Bain," she said.

"I should go see Da," said Bain. "Maybe they've let him ou'."

"They havena let him ou'. He'd be here if they had," said Sigrid. "They won' let you in to see him. Ye know how the Master is. Best get me somo' wood."

"Even so, I'd better see what I can do," said Bain.

Just then there was another deep rumble from beneath them. Tilda turned over in her sleep and mumbled something indiscernible.

"Was that the dragon?" said Bain. He sounded frightened, but curiously intrigued. Sigrid shot him a glance to see his face and eyes were alight with a mysterious glow, not quite only from the light creeping onto it from the cracks in the shutters.

"Aye," she said. She looked over her shoulder to Bofur, whom had his back to her, helping Kili sit up in the bed. "Naught to worry about, Bain. Not yet."

Sigrid finished the stew with what meager supplies she had. They were running low. She'd have to send Tilda to the market later. If they hadn't any money she knew where her father kept his extra savings, something he didn't know she was aware of.

She doled out a steaming portion into a mug and cross the room to Kili. Bofur had left to try to find Fili. She perched herself on the stool before the foot of the bed. Kili reached out for the bowl and she let him take it. Her eyes flickered to his face, making sure not to catch his eye, acutely conscious that he was staring at her.

"You're looking better," she said, clearing her throat in the hope that her words might flow more smoothly. "Fever's all but gone. Few days o' rest an' ye'll be gooda' new."

He didn't answer her. She looked up briefly, saw that he was still looking at her, now smiling slightly, and looked quickly back to her lap.

"Thank you," he said, "for everything. You look young to be such a good nurse."

"I'll be seventeen winters –" she said almost hastily. She caught herself and added. "I'm shor' for my age. Da's always jokin' that I mus' be part dwarf –" she faltered and looked up because she was worried she had spoken out of turn and offended him.

"E's always been in jest, though," she added hastily.

Kili was still smiling. She felt a bit of the knot in her stomach relax.

"Sip tha' slowly," she said, indicating his bowl of stew. "I reckon your stomach's not qui' set yet. Your liable 'o cough it righ' back up."

"I'll be careful," said he, and lifted the spoon to his lips. "Where is your father?"

"E's not got back yet," she said, looking back at her lap because she'd never been quite able to hide the glint in her eye when she lied.

"And your mother?"

Something caught in her throat, but she forced it stubbornly back. "She died when I'as ten." She continued to look at her lap so that she could miss whatever reaction past across Kili's face.

He didn't say anything and she realized her tongue was still running onward, "Tilda was jus' a wee thing, not more than fo' summers. Town got swept with fever. There wasna any medicine and Da sent us away 'cause it was catching. When we go' back Mam was gone. Da go' his work with the shipyard afterward. E's hardly ever home."

"I'm sorry," said Kili's voice, washing over her bowed head. "I lost my father when I was young. He died in a battle."

Sigrid looked up and caught his eye. She wasn't sure what she was supposed to say. Loss was common in Lake-Town. People rarely talked about it. It was always taken for granted that sympathy was scarce – because empathy was all too common.

"The other dwarf, the tall one, the one they've made such a fuss about – e's your uncle?"

"Aye," said Kili, and dropped his gaze, "They're all there now, I suppose." She knew he was talking about the mountain, the dragon. She remembered the far-away, threatening tremor of the earth and is if her thoughts had been swept up in fate another rumble ran through the house, making the porcelain plates rattle on the table.

"They're alrigh'," she said, whispering as if she was only talking to herself, "I'm sure they're alrigh'."

"And the elf? She – I can't shake the feeling that she was just a dream…."

Again he was asking about her, the beautiful she-elf whom had waltzed into Sigrid's home and –

"She's gone with 'er kinsman. Where, I dunno know."

Sigrid left to bring his bowl back into the kitchen. Tilda was tidying scraps of wood from the attack last night, stacking them neatly by the fire to be salvaged or else burned later. She straightened up as Sigrid approached.

"E's handsome isn't he?" she giggled, smothering her voice into Sigrid's skirts, smiling gleefully. "Now that he's na' so flushed with fever."

"Hush now," said Sigrid sharply, lowering her voice. Her cheeks were suddenly burning, as if she'd got her face too close to the fire. "I'll take none o' your impudence. Go help Bain outside." Tilda left, still smiling impishly.

Sigrid uncomfortably shot a look over her shoulder, perhaps to make sure he hadn't heard. He was laughing with the older dwarf – Oin – who had woken from the table and wandered over. She realized she was staring and angrily chided herself, setting about with her work.

Work was good. It kept one's mind off of things, distracted one from the situation, although Sigrid did not know exactly what she was distracting herself from. She felt her lips fall. She suddenly felt pointedly and irrationally unhappy.

There was the sound of scraping boots on the stairs behind her and Sigrid turned to see Bofur and Fili climb up from the dock.

"I can see the mountain down there," said Fili, "Something's happening. The sun won't be up for another hour but there's something red showing across the lake."

"The town is in a muddle," Bofur added. "People are running about. It's early for such a commotion."

There was another tremor that ran through the house. Dust shook from the rafters.

"I think it best you pack some things, Sigrid," said Bofur. "In case there's need for a quick getaway. Best to keep your brother and sister close, as well."

Sigrid felt cold. The sick feeling that had been wavering in her stomach ever since that last night grew more poignant. She began bustling about the kitchen, gathering what things they had that might be easy to carry. She flung the shutters open to see Bain and Tilda puttering about on the street.

She called to them to come back into the house and turned back to the dwarves, who were speaking in low voice.

"Do you think Kili's up to be moved?" said Fili to Bofur.

"I'm alright," said Kili from the bed. He looked alert but not wholly alright.

"That's what you kept saying the last time," said Fili.

Kili frowned but Sigrid felt her mouth open, heard her voice spill off her tongue, "His wound is like new. It might open again if e's on his feet too soon –" He'd lost too much blood, was weak from the fever, needed to regain his strength – there were so many reasons, rational but meaningless reasons that pointed to why he could not be moved. But none addressed what might happen if he had to be, if the dragon came, if the town was attacked, if it was the question between flight and death.

Bain and Tilda had come in and listened as the dwarves continued to talk.

"We have to get Da," said Bain loudly and unexpectedly, cutting across Fili. "He's stuck in prison – we canna leave him. E's our only hope."

Before anyone had a chance to reply, before Sigrid had a chance to register what had happened, there was a sound from the air outside unlike anything she had ever heard before. The nearest thing it reminded her of was the onrushing of a thunderstorm, the wave of rain that often times raced across the lake, except tenfold in volume.

She froze. Everything within her, her breath, the beating of her heart, the pounding of blood in her ears, all stopped. Dimly she realized one of the dwarves, perhaps Bofur, was shouting something. Dimly she heard the keen of trumpets, warning bells, pounding footsteps in the town outside the door that had all gone off at once, a terrorizing tumult of noise, of panic.

"He'll be on us in a moment – quick, now, before it's too late –"

Sigrid felt hands on her back, pushing her toward the door. Her hand flew out of its own accord and rapped itself around Tilda's wrist.

"Our things –" Tilda screeched.

"No time!" said Bofur, and to Bain, who'd rushed to the stair, "No, not that way. It faces the mountain – that's the way he'll be coming!"

Everything was happening too quickly, too soon. It was too unexpected. Sigrid couldn't think. And then above them, sounding so close, so terrifyingly near there was an earth-shattering, heart-stopping roar. It was a sound of pure, raging, white hot wrath, horrifying yet awe-inspiring. It pounded against her eardrums, reverberated against the walls of her skull and the shack, shaking the boards, rattling the china –

"_Run!_" yelled one of the dwarves, and the hand on her back pushed her forward. Her feet tripped out of the door. She felt something wrapped in her hand, which she squeezed as tightly as she could and dragged after her, barely recognizing that it was Tilda's arm.

They stumbled into the street, which was nearly unrecognizable for the throng of rushing, screaming, panicking people. Sigrid hadn't thought Lake-Town had held so many people. Their cries echoed through the air, utter chaos was before them. For the onrush of confused colors, flying bodies, whipping hair, Sigrid could not see where she was running.

A hand was still on her back, pushing her through the crowd. She didn't know where she was going. All she could think, all she could see, smell, and breathe was the screaming in her head that spelled _He's coming. He's coming. He's coming_. Her heart beat with it. Her feet flew to its rhythm.

"The black arrow!"

"_Bain!_" Sigrid shrieked, seeing her brother suddenly dart away from her into the rushing crowd. She felt him leave as if he had been physically torn from her arms.

She skidded to follow him but something blocked her way. "I'll get him! Keep going!" it was one of the dwarves, Bofur from the flash of dark hair she caught sight of as he too disappeared within the crowd.

Sigrid's heart was beating in her throat. The hand that had been resting between her shoulder blades was gone. Her back felt cold. She realized that it must have been Bofur. She wished he hadn't left, wished he still had his hand on her. It had been comforting, something leading her, something that reminded her of a father –

Oin forced himself to the front. She followed his tangle of silver hair that ran down his back, heart fluttering in relief to have something to follow.

A shadow past over their heads, something dark and looming, impenetrable. People around them erupted into screams, dropped to their knees and cowered. Orange light sprouted on the buildings around them, heat pounded against Sigrid's bare flesh. A shower of rock and wood pelted the ground around them.

Tilda screamed. Sigrid swung her about so that Tilda ran in front of her, pushing her sister from the back and throwing an arm around her shoulder to protect her from flying debris.

From the confusion it was hard to discern where she was. Sigrid barely recognized that they were running with the crowd toward the shipyards. Voices were calling from the shadows, "Woman and children! Woman and children first!"

"Take your sister and go!"

"Ney! Ney! I willna leave him! Where's Bain? I willna leave without him!" Sigrid was screaming at the top of her lungs, thinking manically of being heard over the shouts of the villagers, the clatter as building collapsed, and the roar of flames.

"Guards! Take arms! To the parapets! Take arms!"

Flames erupted on the house next to them, the shadow loomed above them. There were screams, pounding footsteps, the pounding of her heart. Sigrid could not think. She could not see. People were climbing into the boats through the fog. Sigrid caught a glimpse of something monstrous, clawed, and armored in gleaming red and gold, and then there was no boat where there was before, just shattered wood, a tumult of spattering water and ice, a body bobbing up to the surface….

"The other way! Run the other way!" Oin pushed her from behind, into the rushing crowd that was just beginning to realize that the dragon was cutting them off. It could fly. It was faster than them. It seemed to be everywhere at once. It had caught them unaware. They were all – all of them were going to die –

"Go! To your father's house! Take your boat! Float out to the shore. Keep in cover of darkness." Oin's voice crashed into her ears without comprehension. Bain. Bain. She had to get to _Bain_.

"Kili, go with them," said Fili, who'd been behind them all the time, supporting his brother on his shoulder. "Oin and I will fight –"

"I won't run," said Kili. "Let me fight –"

"No! Protect them. See they get safely off!"

The moment wavered. Sigrid watched as brother's eye met brother's eye and suddenly they were moving again. Kili was limping before her. She was following, holding Tilda to her side.

They wove their way back through the crowd, ducking as chunks of houses came pelting at them from the darkness, coughing and eyes streaming from the smoke.

"Watch out!" Kili was suddenly on top of her, all three of them on the ground. She didn't know if he had fallen on her to protect her or if his leg had collapsed. She caught a glimpse of red on white from the bandage wrapped around his thigh.

They were back on their feet, stumbling across the broken roads. More fire, more crashes, more roars, the air was thick with the smell of ash, and something else, like wet, rusting metal. Sigrid felt her stomach wrench as she put a name to it: blood.

They reached her street, her house, but it did not look like her house. The roof had caved in, it was black from fire: a splintered, unrecognizable skeleton. Beams of wood creaked. People were scattered on the ground, moaning and thrashing in pain.

Then they were on the dock. A portion of the floor above them had fallen through. It was oddly dark and stifled beneath the house, the crashes and fire seemed not quite so near. They clambered over the wreckage. Kili lifted Tilda over a fallen beam and put her in the boat, which was strangely and miraculously intact.

He reached out a hand to help Sigrid in after her sister. "Bain – we have to wait..." Sigrid's voice flew from her lips, barely audible amongst the din above them.

"Your brother will be fine. Go while you still have a chance, while the dragon's distracted –"

"I canna leave him –"

"He'll be alright," and Kili was dragging her into the boat, but somehow his grasp felt so gentle, so reassuring, so truthful, and sure, and firm. "Save your sister."

He began untying the boat from its moorings, unlooping the knots with flicks of his fingers.

"You're coming with us," said Sigrid's lips again. "Your brother –"

"Told me to see you safely off, not to come with you."

"Your leg –"

"Is well enough. I have to fight."

Sigrid struggled to come up with a valid argument, something that would force him without a question to climb into the boat after them. She didn't stop to wonder why it mattered so much, thinking only that she was afraid, so horribly afraid and clueless, and did not want to be alone in a boat with Tilda, in the middle of the lake where the dragon might come on them at any moment, rising from the darkness –

"Make for shore. Don't run because he'll see you. Hide in the trees."

_No_, _don't leave._ But she couldn't speak, couldn't make her voice come up her throat.

"Stay safe," said Kili, and he met her eyes so she couldn't see his hand that he'd put on the side of the boat. He shoved them off. The boat went spinning backward in the water.

"No –" her voice was caught behind the rent in her throat. Kili stared after her as the boat drifted farther out, and then he'd turned and hobbled away, disappearing into the shadows and smoke that had crept there from the street.

Sigrid stared for a moment, trying to catch another glimpse of him, but the screams and noises of destruction brought her painfully back to herself. She fumbled for the oars, struggled to set them, mumbled vaguely to Tilda to keep quiet, it was alright. She dug an oar blade into the water and struggled to move the boat toward shore.

The town before them glowed in firelight, was hazy and indistinct from the smoke. Slowly, as they drifted farther and farther away, the dragon took shape above it. It's great, webbed wings held it unsteadily in the air. Its tail whipped against the ground, claws flashed, teeth glinted in the light of the flames pouring from its jaws.

Tilda whimpered, wrapping her fingers into Sigrid's skirts. The water was tumultuous, rocking the boat. It was hard to control the steering. Every time Sigrid dipped the oar into the lake it made the water splash in white droplets, tinged red from the glare of the burning town.

They were spinning aimlessly out of control. Water lapped over the sides and into the boat. Tears of fear cramped in Sigrid's throat. The dragon reared over the village, spewing fire, spewing death.

"Sigrid, Da –"

In the light of fire Sigrid saw as people jumped into the water from the docks and shoved boats into the water. A great fluttering wind made the water rise up over the sides of the boat. Sigrid and Tilda pitched to the side. Orange, yellow tipped flames spurted from above them.

Sigrid did the only thing she could think of. She rolled with the tilting boat, threw her arms over Tilda's body and threw the both of them into the roiling water. Cold submerged her. She kicked her feet, propelling her and her sister downward. Reeds whipped at her arms and legs. Even beneath the water, the world was aglow with orange.

The light was suddenly extinguished. Sigrid's lungs screamed for air. Tilda struggled in her arms. Her skirts and cloak weighed her down, sodden with the frigid water. She kicked again. her calf seized in a cramp. Her head broke surface. There was a splash and a shuddering gasp for air next to her that meant Tilda, too, had emerged.

The dragon had left. Their boat was a smoking skeleton of splintered timber. The dragon was flying back towards the town, rearing to rip its claws into the parapets, where hazy shadows were standing and throwing spears, shooting arrows which bounced off the beast's gilded scales.

Sigrid struggled to keep her head above the water. Tilda splashed by her side. Her dress weighed her down. Her feet dragged in reeds and mud. They'd somehow drifted towards the shore. She grabbed hold of Tilda and pulled her further inland, shivering violently as her skin left the water and met the frigid air.

The dragon tore at the town with its claws. It roared, the sound renting the air. Tilda screamed and threw her hands over her ears. Sigrid felt what breath she had left catch in her throat.

The dragon reared, wings flapping in the smoke filled sky. Suddenly it jerked, Sigrid thought perhaps it was going to bodily throw itself atop the village. Its tail convulsed. It curved in on itself. It shrieked so that the branches of the trees above them trembled. And then it unfolded, went limp, fell….

The dragon, against the sky in which the sun was rising in the east and bled red above the mountains and trees below it, against the red and orange that bleached out even the writhing flames of the village, the dragon fell.

It hit the surface of the water with an almighty splash. Water enclosed its convulsing limbs. Its wings flapped. Water boiled, bubbled, launched into the air. Steam billowed and hissed and filled the sky. Waves rippled across the surface of the lake, lapping against Sigrid's chest and throwing Tilda backward into the water.

Sigrid couldn't think. Her voice was gone. Her breath was gone. Everything was gone. She waited for the dragon to emerge again, to shake water from its wings and launch itself back at the village. The village continued to burn. The sun continued to rise, breaking the cloud cover and bathing them in golden light that reduced the dragon's flames to lesser candles. Steam and smoke disappeared among the clouds. The air stilled. The dragon did not emerge.

"Sigrid," Tilda's voice came to her as if far away, in the waking of a dream. "What about Da? Bain –"

Sigrid felt her whole being wrench. _No. Bain_. She grabbed Tilda's hand and slogged through the muck toward shore.

"Hurry," she said, her voice a hiss because she could barely get the words up her throat. "Hurry, Tilda."

Her feet found the crumbling ground and she pulled herself out of the water, using tree roots as handholds. She hauled Tilda up after her, and began pelting through the trees, lashing out at branches, forcing her way back toward the town on shore.

There wasn't any way she could get to the town from this shore o the lake. When she'd got as close as she could by land she muttered to Tilda to stay there. She grabbed her sister's shoulders in both her hands, met her eyes, whispered that everything was alright now, and told her to stay there until someone came to get her.

Sigrid's heart ached to leave her sister, but she needed haste. She needed to find Bain quickly, couldn't have Tilda there slowing her down, there in case – in case Sigrid couldn't find Bain, or she did find him but he was –

Sigrid fell back into the water. The cold was penetrating. Her skirts dragged against her flow. She struggled back toward the town, kicking and stroking as her father had taught her so long ago, worlds away, at a place where Mam still smiled, still laughed….

She grabbed hold of some fallen beams, hauling herself back onto the docks. It was unrecognizable. Everything was unfamiliar, breathing not of home, but of destruction and death. There were no graveyards in Lake-Town. The buried their dead in the water. Sigrid had never been to a graveyard, but she imagined that this – this destruction, this layer of smoke and death, must be what one would feel like.

She scrabbled up a partially destroyed staircase and onto the streets above. Buildings lay in ruins. Smoke rose in swirls from piles of scattered ash that had once been houses. People were struggling up from the piles of wreckage. People were sobbing: wailing of mothers and wives and frightened children echoed in the air.

Sigrid ran through the streets, dodging fallen beams, bricks, and bodies. She didn't know where Bain might be. She didn't know what she was looking for, except that it was something, anything that might lead her to her brother.

"Sigrid!" the shout went almost unheard. It did not matter. It might only be a familiar face, a neighbor or merchant who knew her father. It did not matter. Nothing mattered but getting to Bain.

"Wait, lass," some form of recognition forced its way into her mind and she turned. It was one of the dwarves. Bofur – Sigrid remembered he'd followed Bain, had promised to bring him back, keep him safe.

"Bain –" she faltered, words rushing from her lips quicker than her tongue could keep up. "Where is he? Where've you left him? I have to find him –"

"I lost him, lass. He'd disappeared before I could catch him." Bofur looked concerned. Warm light shined from his eyes. He outstretched a hand and put it on her arm.

Sigrid couldn't breathe. _He'd promised to find him, to look after him, to bring him back_. "Where'd ye last see him?"

"He could be anywhere. I'm sure he's alright. Where's your sister?"

"I have to find him –"

"Bofur! Where've you been?" said a gruff voice and the Oin ambled in. "Lads are right over there."

"Sigrid, come along. Your brother's alright. You'll see."

Sigrid's heart pounded with a sense of immediateness, of agitation, screaming, keening to find Bain. Somehow her legs were following Bofur.

"Bofur, there you are," said another voice, and Fili appeared.

Something cut Sigrid like a knife as she recalled that Kili, too, had disappeared in the attack. It occurred to her that perhaps Fili didn't know, that he thought Kili had gone with she and Tilda.

"Your brother, Kili –" she started to say. Incongruently she realized that it was the first time she had ever said his name, any of the dwarves' names aloud.

"He's alright," said Fili. "Boneheaded fool. Came barging back to fight after I'd told him –" Fili's voice rumbled on. They continued to weave through the fallen debris. They found Kili propped up against partially collapsed chimney, stretching his wounded leg out in front of him and covered in soot, but otherwise unharmed.

Kili smiled as they approached. Sigrid felt a bit of the tension in her chest dissolve and unwillingly her lips curved upward as if in reply.

"Where did you all – Sigrid!" his face fell as if her appearance had startled a memory. "What are you doing here? Where's your sister?"

"She's alrigh'. Have ye seen Bain?"

"Where's your sister, lass?" Bofur insisted gently.

"She's on the North shore, just out of town!" said Sigrid, feeling the words leap out of her mouth impatiently. "She's waiting for someone to come for her –"

"I'll go," said Bofur.

Sigrid's voice stammered to a stop as she almost said _no, not you, not when you've lost Bain. Not when you promised to bring him back, too…. _But the dwarf was already walking back through the wreckage, back the way they'd come.

She swallowed, trying to ease her thumping heart, trying to think of some sort of plan.

"It was hard to tell. It might have been your brother I saw – he was with your father if that was he," Fili was saying.

Sigrid's heart stammered. "Where'as he?"

"Somewhere over that way," it was a casual wave of the hand to the right. "I'm all turned around. Have you heard what they've been saying? Bard the bowman shot him down with a black arrow – your father! Better than that Girion. One arrow he only had. Straight into the beast – where are you going?"

Sigrid had dashed away, her footfalls matching the clap of her heart, thinking of black arrows and the windlass, near the Master's courts. She passed other rushing figures, whom tended the wounded or the dead. She almost tripped on a pile of rubble but caught herself, scraping her palms against the splintered wood beneath her feet.

The crowd was getting thicker. She noticed most of them had on tattered remains of armor or guard uniforms. Most of them were covered in ash and blood, nursing injuries and huddled in groups. None of them paid her any mind.

She tripped up a flight of stairs, weakened and blackened with fire. A step gave out and her foot fell through. She pitched forward but tore her leg out of the splintered wood. She stumbled the rest of the way up and onto the top of a parapet.

There was the windlass. There was her father, kneeling on the ground, bending over a still, lifeless body –

"_Bain!_" It was her brother. Sigrid felt her cry wrenched from her throat and she rushed forward, seeing in a blur as her father turned to face her, wakened by her voice.

"Sigrid – where's Tilda?"

Sigrid didn't answer. She fell to her knees at her brother's body. His face was deathly pale. A trickle of blood ran down his chin from his lip, looking an unnatural bright red in the glinting sunlight. _What have you done? What have you done? No, Bain – Not Bain –_

"Sigrid, he's a pulse –"

"Get away from him!" she was not aware she was speaking, not aware of her father's voice. Her hands fumbled to his chest, pressed where his heart would be, waited for a beat –

"He isna dead –"

_Quiet!_ She needed quiet! Silence to hear his heartbeat, to hear the breath seep from between his lips.

"Le' go of me!" she shrieked as her father's hand touched her shoulder. "Why's he here? Why dinna you send him away?"

"Sigrid, he isna dead," said her father's voice again. And finally she felt it, a thumping beneath her palm, beneath Bain's chest. Her shoulders relaxed, tension spilled away as if blood from a wound. Her eyes blurred with a sudden onrush of tears, which did not make sense because Bain was alright. He was not dead. There was a heartbeat beneath her hand. He was not dead.

"Sigrid, come away. Where's Tilda?"

"He needs a healer," she said. "His heartbeat isna steady. He – he needs help…."

"Sigrid, where's Tilda? Where've you left her?"

"He needs help. How 'as he hurt?"

"Sigrid!" her father's face was suddenly in her own, his hands pressed on her shoulders to make her face him. "Where's Tilda? Answer me!"

Sigrid stared into her father's eyes, bloodshot from fatigue and glowing with suppressed emotion.

She swallowed, finding it almost hurt. "She's with the dwarves. She – she's alrigh'."

"Get some men to help me with Bain. Go on now."

"Yes, Da."

* * *

To be concluded.


	3. Part 3 - Many Partings

Part Three of Three – Many Partings:

Horns sounded in the distance.

Sigrid looked up, from where she'd been pressing a cloth to Bain's forehead. She caught sight of Kili and Fili, sitting in the corner of the makeshift tent – bits of cloth and rags thrown over broken timbers – whom also looked up.

"Elves," said Fili, face darkening.

Something churned in Sigrid's stomach, something that shouldn't have happened because elves meant help, more healers, more warriors –

"That means we should be moving out," Bofur was standing in the doorway. "Kili's leg has healed up nicely. 'Bout time we were joining Thorin, anyway."

"But wha' if he's –" Sigrid stopped herself, shocked at her audacity. She'd grown accustomed to talking to the dwarves as if they were her father or Bain, had forgotten that she was merely a peasant girl and they great warriors, some royalty among their kin.

"It'd be good to find out, then," said Bofur, perhaps guessing what Sigrid was going to say. _But what if he's dead?_ She couldn't imagine anything surviving the dragon, especially if they had been the ones to wake it up.

"Canna ye stay here?" said Tilda.

"Elves and dwarves don't mix, lass," said Oin.

Sigrid turned away. Her eyes were suddenly burning. She'd forgotten that the dwarves were not there to stay, that they would sometime be moving on. She'd forgotten that they would not be there to help her with Bain, that Bofur with his kindly voice would not be there to help wind bandages because her father was not. She'd forgotten that Kili's leg would get better – had gotten better – that he, too, would leave….

She didn't know why it mattered so much, why she felt she would feel so keenly their absence. She wondered where they would go, after they regained their treasure, and what they would do with that treasure. Surely they would rebuild their kingdom. Surely they would bolster their city, so near this town yet so far away. They would live in grand halls and sparkling corridors overflowing with gold and jewels. And Sigrid would be left here, poor as always, a lowly peasant girl.

"The elf king is approaching," the voice of her father drew her out of her reverie. He was standing at the flapping entrance of the tent. "I suggest you leave soon."

"We were just thinking the same," said Bofur.

"I shouldna' mention it to you, but the elf king marches toward war. He believes the gold should belong to him. Some of the men in the town believe it as well. He's gathering forces here. We'll be leaving at dawn tomorrow."

"Why're you telling us?" Fili demanded, "Up to more tricks, are you?"

Her father did not appear bothered by Fili's tone. "Your leader is offered a choice. Bring him word that if he gives up a share of gold the elf king says there will be no bloodshed."

"Thorin won't give in to the demands of an elf," said Oin.

"There are only fourteen of you, many of us. You're outnumbered. If you don't give in you'll surely die."

Sigrid's heart was throbbing in her throat. She worked carefully so that it wouldn't show on her face.

"Then we'll die," said a voice fiercely. Sigrid's hand clenched on the cloth, cool water trickled down her fingers. It was Kili's voice.

_It was their gold. The elves had no right. Her father had no right – _Sigrid chided herself because she didn't know of such things. It was not her place.

"Yes. Then ye'll die," said her father. "Leave quickly. The elf king will be here in a matter of hours." Sigrid heard her father's footfalls crunch on the ground outside as he walked away.

"Pack up, then, lads," said Bofur. "Don't suspect they'll miss one of their boats gone, do you?"

"I'll get you some food," said Sigrid's voice in her ears, again sounding impossibly calm. She'd left through the other side of the tent before they had a chance to say anything or see her face.

When she returned with some provisions wrapped in a cloth she found the dwarves gone. Tilda pointed her in the direction they had left. Sigrid found Kili by the water, before a ruined dock, nailing a patch to a hole in the side of a row boat.

"Something for your journey," she said. She left her bundle near the dock, but far enough that Kili couldn't grab it from her. She didn't want to get too close to him. She didn't want their hands to accidentally touch and for her to do something foolish.

"Thank you."

"Where a' the others?"

"Gone scavenging. Fili left me here to repair the boat and rest my leg. We've a long walk ahead of us."

"Aye," said Sigrid.

"Your brother will be fine, Sigrid. I'm sure he will."

Sigrid didn't speak. She couldn't. Bain hadn't stirred yet that day. She'd done everything she could. She didn't know what else to do to help him. She'd never felt so helpless. She'd never thought something like this could happen.

_Why did they have to come? Why did they have to come searching for their gold, waking the dragon, bringing Orcs, and elves, and other evils? They should have left them well enough alone. Why her family? Why her Da? Why her brother_ –

She was suddenly sitting on something cold and hard and was unaware she had sunken to the ground, unaware if she was even by the docks or still in the presence of Kili.

"I'm sorry. I wish it could have been different. It isn't fair, what's been asked of you."

"Ye don' hava go," she murmured. She put her face to her knees so he wouldn't see her tears. "Convince the elves not a' fight. It doesna matter. T's only gold. Doesna matter…."

"It's our home. We cannot _not_ go."

"Then convince your leader a' give up. There's no hope if ye fight them. They – you're too few. They'll kill ye all…."

"Some things you don't understand, Sigrid. You're young."

"You're young, too. Younger than the rest of them. Ye – your too young a' die."

"I won't die," there was a smile in his voice. Something warm and leathery touched the back of her fist. She realized it was his hand. His arm was suddenly, unexpectedly draped over her shoulder.

She almost pulled away, because she was a young girl and he was a young man and it was the proper thing to do. But she enjoyed too fully the heat of his body seeping through her cloak, the roughness of his calloused palm on the back of her hand, the sound of his voice so close to her ear. Besides, she couldn't think for the patter of her heartbeat in her ears. She was so sure he could hear it, too.

"You're shivering."

"T's cold." Her voice was muffled, because her face was still pressed into her knees. She didn't trust herself to look up, even though she wanted to see his face, wanted his eyes to meet hers. But she was afraid – that maybe she would do something foolish.

"Is it always cold here?"

"Ney," she whispered, "only in winter. Summers are wonderful, warm, never a drop o' rain."

"I'd like to see summer here."

"Ye'll enjoy it. Beautiful here, in summer."

"Kili, time to be shoving off. You fixed that boat yet?"

Sigrid started, and jumped to her feet so violently Kili was almost unbalanced. She realized Kili's hand was still holding hers. Her arm tugged and his fingers were torn from hers, warm flesh disappeared to be replaced by cold, empty air. There was Fili, looked at them strangely. Sigrid felt her cheeks burn, heart sink in a horrible feeling of anticlimax.

"Sorry I held ye up," she mumbled, barely able to form discernible words. She stared at her feet, anywhere but at Fili – at Kili, whom stood to his feet beside her.

"Nearly done," said Kili.

"I wish'a luck," Sigrid whispered.

"Thank you for the supplies." She was never quite sure which of the dwarves had said it, for she'd darted away. She found solace behind a partially crumbled brick wall and felt her head burry in the thin layer of soot left there by the dragon's fire.

"She's a girl, Kili," said Fili's voice, carried back to her on a light breath of wind. Her heart pumped but no blood seemed to be getting to her head. She felt so curiously faint.

"Almost seventeen winters," said Kili.

"Can't stand to leave any female be, can you?"

"At least she's not an elf."

"Get back to work you lazy sod."

Sigrid felt her throat catch in the horrible preceding of tears and kicked her legs back to work. She didn't look back. She felt her heart flutter in fear, thought perhaps that this was the last time she might see – but she didn't look back.

* * *

The sun had not yet risen when Sigrid heard someone stir at the mouth of the tent. She sat up from the blankets they had laid on the ground, being careful not to disturb Tilda.

A large silhouette was bending over a pile of supplies. Sigrid watched it for a moment before the ebb and flow of his breathing became familiar.

"Da?"

"Hush, Sigrid, don't wake your sister."

Sigrid stood carefully from her wrappings and followed her father back out of the tent.

"I dinna mean to wake ye," he said.

"I wasna sleeping."

"T's almost morning"

"Aye. Wher'a ye going, Da?"

"The elves are gathering what townsman are left and want to fight. I'm their leader now, Sigrid."

"Your leaving fo' the mountain?"

"I'll be back. Won' be more than a few days."

"You're gonna kill the dwarves 'cause they won' give ye their gold?"

"Ney, Sigrid. We won't kill anyone if we don't have to. There's a wizard with the elves. He's a friend of the dwarves. He won't let them die. He's brought tidings of a band of Orcs – an army."

"Ye go a' war, then?"

"I havena any choice, Sigrid. I have to protect the town, its people."

"You're leaving again?"

"Yes, Sigrid. I must –"

"Aye, ye must," her throat was burning, voice was curt. She thought perhaps she might start screaming. "Go then, if ye must. Your son may be dying – _my brother_ may be dying – but go if ye must! Go again, if ye must!"

"Hush, Sigrid!" her father's voice was almost fierce. His eyes glinted at her strangely. Sigrid couldn't come to care. She didn't – nothing mattered – _nothing_ _mattered_.

"Why?" the words ran off her tongue. "Why must it be you? Why always you, Da?"

"I'm sorry, Sigrid." His arms were suddenly wrapped around her shoulders, pressing her face into his chest as she often held Tilda when she was scared or upset. "I've always tried my best. For you, and Bain, and Tilda, I've always tried. I've tried to be a good father. Above all tried to keep you safe…."

"I know, Da. I know."

He kissed her atop her head. She closed her eyes against the fabric of his tunic. The cloth left her cheek and she listened to his footsteps as he, too, left her.

* * *

"What is a'?"

"Not a cloud," said Sigrid, looking up from the twine she had been winding absentmindedly into a fishnet, staring across the lake, whispering back to Tilda because somehow whispering felt more appropriate. "Surely not a cloud. T's moving too fast."

"Do you think a's on our side?"

"No," the answer was inexorably true, but Sigrid chided her tongue for speaking out of turn. Tilda huddled next to her, shivering. "But naught to worry abou', Tilda, I'm sure. Da an' the others'll be able to stop it, whatever a' is."

The swirling darkness was winding its way around the mountain, the mountain that was too far away to see anything distinguishable, to see the battle that raged at its roots. Because things echoed around the lake, Sigrid could often times hear the battle, the crash of falling stones and leap of flame, the ring of swords, even occasionally and in startling clarity a raised voice, chanting a war cry or screaming in agony….

Sigrid yearned to cross the lake herself, to see for herself what was happening, who was winning, who had died. She ran her fingers over the rough twine, feeling its fibers prick her skin.

She wondered if perhaps he had wanted to kiss her, that day when Kili sat so near with his arm around her at the dock. She had wanted to kiss him. She'd never been kissed by a boy before. She would have enjoyed it, she was sure. She would have felt confused and guilty, but she was sure she would have enjoyed it, would have liked him to be her first.

It felt like ages away now, although it had not even been two days. He seemed leagues away, not just across the lake, so reachable yet so intangible.

"Bain isna going a' die, is he, Sigrid?"

"No, Tilda," Sigrid whispered. "E's better now. He isna going a' die."

"And Da? Da isna going a' die, either?"

"No, Tilda. I promise Da won' die, either."

"It won' be like Mam, will a'?"

"No, Tilda, not li' Mam." Her fingers entwined with her sister's, forgetting their work on the net. Work was good. It kept her mind off the pressing things of the present, kept her mind from wondering to horrible, terrifying alternatives.

She discarded her work and sat side by side with her sister, stared across the lake and worried.

* * *

"Where ar'a going, Sigrid?" said Tilda.

"Stay here, Tilda. Stay with Bain. Ye'll be fine."

"But where ar'a going?"

"They need help – the battle's over –"

"Where's Da, Sigrid?"

"E's alrigh'. I'm sure e's alrigh'."

"Don' leave, too, Sigrid. I'm frightened. Don' leave, not 'gain like ye did after the dragon –"

Sigrid felt her heart leap into her throat, struck pointedly by how familiar this conversation was.

"I hav'a, Tilda. I won' be long. Ye'll be alrigh'."

"Don', Sigrid."

"I'll be back. I'll be fine. You stay with Bain. I won' be but a little while."

"Please, don'." And her face was pressed in Sigrid's stomach, tears leaking through her blouse again.

"I'll come back. I will. I promise, I will."

"I know."

* * *

Sigrid clambered out of the boat that had scraped on the opposite side of the lake. The other women who had embarked to help with the dressing of the wounded climbed onto the shore as well.

Signs of the battle were almost immediately apparent. Blood stains sprinkled the yellow grass underfoot. Sigrid could smell it on the air again, mixed with scent of smoke, just as the town had been after the dragon's attack.

The air was hazy. From the clouded sky above snow began to flutter.

The camp, tattered sheets strung over sticks to make tents, appeared in the distance. Sigrid almost tripped over a twisted, bleeding Orc carcass as she forget to look where she was walking. She stumbled forward, unaware that her pace had changed.

"They're na' going anywhere, Sigrid," said one of the older women. Sigrid didn't hear her. The cold air stung her cheeks and whispered through her hair. Snow lighted on her face and melted into little beads of water that stung as if they were pinpricks.

Moans of the injured were lifted into the air. Clanking armor and whinnies of horses, stomping boots, the ruffling of the tent flaps, all joined to make an underlying chorus, something that sung of death.

Sigrid wove through the soldiers, whom wandered about the camp, carrying wounded or dead, or on some other mission. She peered through the smoke and fog, looking for any familiar face.

She thought she noticed the little Hobbit-something that had been with the dwarves, walking with a tall, bearded man whom was more than twice his height. Before she could make up her mind to get closer they'd disappeared into a tent.

She saw another man, short in stature and she immediately thought of the dwarves. She approached him, heart leaping into her throat, but when she got close enough to see his face she saw that it was a dwarf – but none that she recognized and certainly not Bofur, Oin, Fili, or Kili. She then noticed that he was clustered in a group of his kinsman. Now that she was aware, Sigrid could see many more dwarves about her, flitting in the shadows, nursing wounded of their own.

"Sir," she stopped a passing soldier, whom looked at her. He might have been any villager, someone whom she had passed day after day at the market or on the docks, but now he looked utterly unrecognizable. His face was halfway hidden behind a helmet, which was sitting crooked on his head. "Bard the bowman, do ye know where he is?"

The soldier gestured gruffly further into the camp, "With the lot of them, I suppose. I havena seen him."

"Was he injured?"

"I dunno. I havena seen him." the man pressed on and Sigrid felt her way forward. The snow was beginning to fall in earnest, making it even more difficult to see.

She pressed closer to the head of the camp, closer to the battlefield and closer to the mountain, which loomed above her and cast the whole camp into shadow. A lone, more complete looking tent appeared out of the haze. Tattered flags were stuck in the ground by its side, the flag of Lake-Town, a silver strap of fabric that was embroidered with a crown and a branch of a tree, and another streamer that was dark and emblazoned with a battleax.

And sitting by the side of the tent, ruffling their wings and clicking their beaks, were three enormous eagles. Sigrid's breath caught in utter shock, amazement, awe. She had never seen beasts more beautiful, had only heard of such things in legend. One of the eagles made a screeching, grating sound, and adjusted itself from its perch. Sigrid faltered backwards, not knowing what to think or do, being sure that she could not approach the tent with such sentries.

Footsteps behind her warned Sigrid of someone approaching. She shot a glance over her shoulder and saw a tall shadow looming out of the snow and fog. Suddenly she was stumbling forward toward the tent, afraid perhaps it would be a guard warning her away.

She held her breath as she past the eagles, unable to tear away her eyes. They looked at her as she passed, eyes glinting in the poor light and clicking their beaks. She fumbled for a flap of the tent and backed into its shelter, forgetting whom she might be walking in on, thinking only of the eagles, of not looking away from them –

"What of my son?" said a haughty, regal voice, and Sigrid's heart stuttered. She whirled around, and became aware she had backed into a tent housing several people. She was partially concealed behind a large shield, which had been propped in the ground against a post.

"He has been found, Sire, alive and uninjured. He inspects the dead," said a tall, armor clad elf to the first who had addressed the question. He was even taller than his subordinate. His face was set with gleaming silver eyes, golden hair was pulled in a tail behind his back.

"Bring him here."

"He will not come."

The two elves were not the only in the tent, a burly, wide-shouldered dwarf was skulking in a corner – again Sigrid looked for some kind of familiarity and did not recognize his face, and then there was her father.

Sigrid's father was standing against the wall of the tent, looking surly and impenetrable. His dark eyes looked almost afire. Sigrid's voice disappeared down her throat because he was – did not look at all like her father. He looked unnaturally tall and strong, regal, almost kingly….

Suddenly Sigrid was struck poignantly at how desperately she did not belong in this tent, did not belong on the scene she had trespassed upon.

Before she could slink away unseen, her father's eyes drifted over to her, found her, held her. His brow darkened. Sigrid felt her face burn and she stumbled backwards, prepared to flee –

The tent flaps rustled, Sigrid felt her back hit something. She glanced up, saw that it was another tall, impossibly powerful figure, one clad in gray, with a silver beard and hair, and a crumpled, pointed hat atop his head.

A part of her far away and unrelated remembered that her father had mentioned something about a wizard. Sigrid did not allow herself to reflect. She skirted him, who glanced at her in gruff surprise, and left through the swinging tent flaps.

She tottered away, thinking vaguely and irrationally of hiding, or running, avoiding her father certainly….

"Sigrid."

"Da – I – I only wanted to see you –"

"What ar'a doing here?" his eyes were stern, mouth set in a deep line. She had never seen him so imposing. He was so dark, so different. The part of her who had thought of the wizard remembered him right after Mam –

"I came with the women. To tend the wounded –"

"The wounded are being gathered in the camp."

"I – I know, Da. I – wanted to see ye were alrigh'."

"I'm alright. Get on with ye."

"Da, the dwarves –"

"Are scattered about, more dwarves than you could ever want."

"But the – the ones from town."

"I dunna know, Sigrid."

"I – yes, Da. I'm sorry."

"T's alright, Sigrid. What about Bain?"

"E'll be alright."

Her father brushed her cheek with his finger. Momentarily his eyes softened, "Good, then. Get along. They'll need your help."

Sigrid hadn't any chance to say anything else, even if she'd thought of something else to say, for her father had walked back into the tent. Even his walk was unrecognizable, touched with a slight limp so that it was jerking and unbalance, but somehow all the more imperial.

Sigrid turned away and back into the midst of the camp. She didn't know where else to look. Her stomach churned, not only with the smell of blood. She hugged her cloak closer to her chest, trying to close out the snow and chilled air.

"Sigrid," it was another of the village women, calling for aide. Sigrid rushed forward, hoping she might be lost in work once again.

* * *

Her fingers fumbled in the cold, wrapping bandages, holding down arms and legs, and pushing linin to bleeding wounds.

She was rushing to another tent, carrying scraps of torn away cloth for bandages when she heard a familiar voice, addressed toward her, "Shouldn't have come, lass."

Sigrid whirled around, the scraps of linin slipping out of her fingers in surprise. It was Oin, limping toward her, dried blood on his cheek and tangled in his beard.

Thousands of questions pounded in her brain, struggling all at once to usher from her lips so that she could hardly breathe.

"Battlefield's no place for a wee one like you."

"Where are they?"

Oin looked at her. She realized his eyes were glinting brightly from within his tangle of hair, swimming with moisture so that her throat was suddenly burning, and fists clasped at her side.

"Who?" her voice tripped. It was a valid question, an important question, to which the answer was important, imperative, frightening. She didn't want to know the answer.

"The two lads," he choked, voice thick, water trickling over his beard from his eyes. "They and Thorin. Poor lads jumped in to save him, they did. Right into a wall of Orcs, no chance…."

His lips still moved, undulations of sound continued to issue, but his voice had ceased to matter. His words, the answer, disappeared on the light breeze that swept over the field, ruffled the chainmail and stirred the pools of blood.

"They're over there. Laid with all the rest. Side by side, they are."

Sigrid stumbled forward without feeling the frozen ground beneath her feet, unaware if the blur before her eyes was because of the snow or the sudden stinging in her eyes.

"Don't go, lass. Tain't any sight for you," said Oin's voice behind her, calling her back, warning her not to proceed but Sigrid didn't listen, could barely hear.

People passed her as she walked. They tossed no second glance to her face, perhaps too accustomed to the expression of dull grief, shock, and unbelief to pay it any mind.

The dead were piled in rows, side by side, packed close together, in the immediate field right off the camp. Hardly anything stirred, neither searchers nor mourners, not yet. Not when there was such work to be done, wounded to be tended, things to be tidied and cleaned. The dead could wait. The dead would not get up and walk away.

_Because they were already gone. They were already gone. He was already gone._ Only days ago he had lived and breathed, held her in his arms –

It was strange that he was so easy to find. She saw him almost immediately, on the ground with all the rest, eyes closed, still….

Something stirred. Sigrid faltered, feet tripping to a stop. There was someone else there – someone else living. He was crouched near the ground, not far from where Kili lay. Sigrid had not noticed him before because he had sat so still, the muted grays and greens of his cloak and armor had disappeared amongst the confusion of the falling snow.

Now she saw that it was a young man. Shining gold hair strayed down his back. His face was cast mostly in shadow but a glint of light caught the tip of his nose and curve of his jawline, enough that Sigrid could recognize him. It was he, the male elf whom had barged into their cottage to fight the Orcs – surely it was he, Sigrid could not forget a face like his.

He was bowed over another still body. It was the she-elf. It was _her_. Sigrid could tell from the auburn tresses splayed on the ground about her shoulders, and the forest green robes pooling on the ground around her. Sigrid could tell she was dead for the stain of dark brown spread across her breast.

Sigrid hadn't thought elves could die.

Sigrid watched the male elf as he knelt by her side in utter stillness and utter silence. She felt as if she had trespassed upon something private, something somehow indecent. Her feet were moving backwards, perhaps thinking dully of leaving, of letting him grieve alone with his dead.

But she – Sigrid – she had a right to grieve, had any right as precious to grieve for her lost, too, for her dead. As much right as he….

The elf did not show any sign she was anything more than the stirring of the wind as she approached again. The she-elf and Kili were lain close together. Sigrid wondered if perhaps it was because they had died together, she saving him or he her – but it didn't matter, didn't really matter….

Kili was at her feet now, arm to arm with his brother. Her knees touched ground at his feet but she was unaware of having made the decision to kneel. She didn't know what she was supposed to do.

The male elf had his palm pressed against the she-elf's face, fingers brushing her cheeks, her eyes and lips. Sigrid thought perhaps to reach out and touch Kili, as well. Her eyes found his hand, lying bent and empty on the ground at his side.

Her fingers inched forward and stopped, like the breath coming up her throat. She did not want to touch him. He was dead, and cold, and gone, and she did not want to touch him because death was ugly, and rotting, and defiling. Bile rose in her throat, to think of him – _no, not him…not him…. _

She thought of that night, in the darkness while he muttered in his fever, how she had thought to take his hand then, too, but hadn't, how she somehow couldn't now. She looked at his face and saw that it was almost untouched, except for a long, jagged cut that had dried to a crumbling brown. His face was calm and gray. He might have been sleeping in his sickness except that no sweat beaded on his brow and no breath leaked from his parted lips.

His dark hair was turning gray from the fluttering snow. It lighted on his face and did not disappear into water as it did on Sigrid's own.

She felt the wind tear at the tears that trickled slowly from her eyes, freezing the water to her cheeks. She became aware that something else was muttering in her ears, other than the stirring breeze and the repeating salutations of disbelief and pleading in her mind.

It was the elf, murmuring beneath his breath, just loud enough that the whisper stirred the air at Sigrid's ears, so that she could not grasp his words but that the constant ebb of his voice felt as if it was coming from inside her own head. It sounded like a prayer or a song, or perhaps something of both. It bent and wavered, undulated and wound through the air, completely consumed her as if it was her own grief relayed audibly through verse.

And suddenly her fingers hit something hard and rough, as if they had crept subconsciously against her will. They caressed Kili's fingertips, moved to his palm, massaged the cold hard skin, trying to work warmth back into the crevices. She realized her nails were caked with blood from the wounded.

She had seen mothers and wives, even fathers and brothers throw themselves bodily onto their dead, to hold and caress, as if to wring them back to life, but this was all Sigrid could manage. Her hand against his, meaningless and distant as he was from her – because what had he been to her anyway? What had he been?

Surely not a hope, never a prayer, surely he had been nothing. Their paths had brushed, never crossed, never entwined, never could. Surely he was nothing – she was nothing. She was not pretty, was plump and short and a meager village girl. He had been a warrior, not fit for her dreams –

Suddenly the elf's muttering stopped. The wind itself seemed to forget to whistle in the silence that was left with the closing of his voice. Sigrid looked up to see the elf had bowed further over the she-elf, perhaps to brush his lips against her brow, and then he stood. He did not see Sigrid. Surely she was nothing to him, too. His legs carried him away swiftly and he did not look back over his shoulder.

And then Sigrid was left alone. All around her there was death, hundreds of bodies laid side by side – and before her was Kili, dead too. She became aware that she was trembling, shivering with a cold more penetrating than just the wind and snow.

She stood with difficulty. Her legs had gone stiff, as if the hardness of death had begun to creep to her, as well.

She stared at Kili's body before her feet and realized she did not know how to say good-bye. There were no words fit – at least not from her tongue, no solute she could think of. She clenched her jaw to keep her teeth from rattling, held her arms over her breast to try to restore something reminiscent of heat, stared for what seemed like an eternity at his cold and lonely, calm but lifeless face, and finally tore away.

* * *

Sigrid held her knees to her chest and stared across the lake to the mountain, which rose in the distance and disappeared amongst the clouds. Her breath came in a fog from her lips, drifted past her face and was carried away on the wind.

She could not remember if this was the same dock she had sat side-by-side with Kili, where he had put his arm around her shoulder and felt so warm and close. The town looked so unrecognizable that it was impossible to tell. Perhaps it was. Perhaps it wasn't. It didn't matter.

She was not supposed to be there. There was much work to be done, wounded to be tended, things to be rebuilt. Work was good, there was much distraction….

But she didn't think she could ever be distracted from the way his face had looked, pallid and gray and utterly still. It would be hard to be distracted from his hand, that had lay so lonely and empty at his side, how it had felt when she caressed his fingers with her own, cold and stiff when she had been expecting heat and pulsing blood.

Her eyes stung, perhaps from the wind or chill air. Sigrid had never been a girl to weep, to sob. She had not cried, not fully, had not felt but one or two tears trickle down her cheeks at a time. Tears were weak, were a nuisance because they made it hard to see, now blurred the distant mountain and the lake that Sigrid watched.

He, such a dashing, handsome young dwarf whom she had helped nurse back to health. Tilda would have called it romantic, except that the dashing young dwarf was dead now, and that wasn't romantic at all – had never been romantic, had never been a fairytale because – because….

Because he was dead now and that wasn't a happy ending, never a fairytale, never romantic. Sigrid's hands clenched into fists at her side, nails bit into her palms, and tears trickled down her cheek and neck, wetting the collar of her blouse and chilling her to the wind.

* * *

End.

* * *

Author's Note: I thank everyone for all their support; your feedback has been unutterably appreciated. I'm off to check the last few chapters of _The Hobbit_, to see if I've made some sort of mistake about Kili dying….


	4. Epilogue

Epilogue:

Fire, water, stone, and knives

Of barren houses, broken lives

Roars of thunder, death in sky

Fate has come, doom is nigh

Youth is passing, age regress

Gone is heart, gone is breath

What is courage, what is fear?

What is time but passing year?

Victory is naught but life for life

Death for death, loss and strife

Come thee all and come thee did

What comes of triumph but thy life thee bid?

Flame leapt and seared, mine heart did burn

Crumbling ashes, naught left to yearn

Thine eyes grow dimmer, thee do depart

What was love that had no start?

Trembling lips, heart, and breath

The end forgo in naught but death

He had a cloak, he had a scythe

His eyes did gleam, loathes what's blithe

Tumbling swords, axes, bow

What thine people reap, they'll surely sow

Caught up in clouds, caught up in tide

'Twas not only thee, but more whom died

Verily, verily, come what may

If thee had not gone, I might have stayed

But he takes all, leaves naught left

Twas his before, hence 'tis not theft

Naught remains, he shan't look back

Cares not for pity, cares not for lack

He leaves me barren, stripped and cold

I had been warned, I had been told

A toiling road 'tis death to cheat

A stolen love, how bittersweet

* * *

Fin.

* * *

A/N: Lied, not a three-shot. Sort of corny I know, but I thought it gave it a sort of artistically/tragical flare. And yes, this actually is the last update.

Thank you ever-so-much for all the reviews. It seems as though my Sigrid touched a chord in many of my readers, and your feedback has been incredible. There's nothing an author likes to hear more than to know her work is being appreciated.

Also, I have tentatively posted an alternate ending for this, titled _uair amháin, _where Kili does not die and maybe, possible Sigrid and he embark on the twisting journey of a romance between two races. The first chapter (and coming soon, the rest) can be found on my profile.

Thank you again!


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